Corbenic by Catherine Fisher
For a second it was there. Then the cloud fragmented; the darkness was a window, its stained glass broken, a patchwork of vacancies and facets of ice, seated figures, a shattered supper.
This was not Corbenic. It was some sort of chapel.
Cal crouched by the wall, his breath a cloud. He was ill with disappointment; it overwhelmed him like the blackness over the moon. It darkened his whole mind.
The rough tongue licked his hand.
The thought came, out of what seemed a deep well of pain, that at least there might be a roof, some shelter, so he stood and groped for a doorway, found a pointed arch swathed thick with ivy and bindweed and stinging nettles and holly.
Ducking under, he saw the chapel was a green bower of growth. It stank of damp and mildew and mold. Weeds had climbed all over it, sprouted and tangled; the roof was a web of snow-littered branches. And under them, in the farthest corner, a fire was crackling.
The dog crossed a slant of moonlight, a slither of darkness. It nosed and snuffled a huddle of shadow. And the shadow raised its head and said, “So I haven’t left my moulting cage in vain.”
Chapter Twenty-one
If you had seen all I have seen you would not sleep.
Oianau of Merlin
Cal stepped inside warily. A handful of kindling was thrown on the fire; the flames spat a sudden crackle of sparks up into the ruined roof.
The Hermit sat cross-legged, his patchwork coat spread around him, leaning on a large bundle at his back. His narrow, crazy eyes glinted red in the flickering light. Behind him the dog went and lay down with a faint sigh, chin on paws.
Cal came and sat by the fire. The warmth of it was such a relief that for a long moment he simply absorbed it, as if something deep in him was frozen hard and had to be thawed. When he managed to speak his voice was rusty with disuse, his throat dry and hoarse. “I suppose I should have known it would be you.”
Merlin grinned, and fished in a filthy knapsack at his side. He threw something over; Cal caught it and found it was bread, still slightly soft. He tore a bit off and chewed it.
“Did I not prophesy, wise fool, that we should meet here where all but shame has deserted you?” The man’s voice was a whisper; Cal knew he was mad, probably dangerous. He didn’t care. Stretching his weary legs out he said, “Have you got anything to drink?”
A bottle. And then, to his worn surprise, a cup. Merlin poured carefully, his black and broken fingernails poking through torn mittens. He held the cup out.
“What is it?” It smelled of berries.
“Something of my own. It will make you sleep.”
Forever, Cal thought, but he was too thirsty and he drank, and the taste was a deep red taste and sweet. As he put the cup down he felt a drowsy warmth flood his head and chest. There had been alcohol in it.
Merlin leaned back on the patient dog. “You have walked a long time in the Waste Land.”
“Three days.”
“If you say so.” He spat into the flames. “Maybe much longer. Maybe years. You have not found what you seek.”
It wasn’t a question. Suddenly Cal felt the tension of the dark land drain away from him; though it was only just out there, through that ivy-grown arch, he felt as if he had somehow come to somewhere else. His mind cleared. He leaned forward. “Listen. At Caerleon. The . . . girl, woman, whatever, said I hadn’t been able to ask about the Grail because of my mother. I left her. Did you know that?”
Merlin watched, unmoving.
“I just walked out on her. I hated her. I was ashamed of her. But I can’t do anything about that now, because she’s dead, she took an overdose.” He clenched his hands together. “Don’t you see, I can’t do anything about it! It’s too late. It’ll always be too late now. Forever.” His words were breaking apart.
Slowly, Merlin stirred the fire. When he spoke his voice was sad. “She follows you.”
Cal looked up. “What?”
“Like a shadow. She is your shadow. She’s a dog at your heels, I know, I have my own doom at mine. You wish it to be too late, but it is not. It never is.”
“I hate her.”
Merlin laughed, tossing the stick down. “Not so. You have forgotten how to love. That’s a different sorrow.”
Behind him, tiny leaves were sprouting on the ivy. Cal watched them, distracted. “I can’t forgive her.”
“And does she forgive you?”
“I don’t . . .”
“You do. You must turn around and ask her.”
Cal stared in blank fear. Then the Hermit laughed, a dry, brittle laugh that made the dog’s ears prick uneasily.
“How?” Cal whispered.
Merlin leaned forward, eyes bright. “You have already drunk the means.”
The chapel was a green gloom. It was closing on them, the ivy growing, unfurling, climbing with small crisp rustles over the walls and along the floor, curling fronds around the dog’s belly. It was growing from Merlin, from his hair and beard, his fingernails; he was a green man, made of leaves and stems and bines, they were raveling out and tangling around Cal, stopping him breathing. He felt the stems cover him, warm him; he snuggled into them.
Behold the marvels, they whispered. Behold the mysteries of the Grail.
But all he saw was Sutton Street. It was his old bedroom, with the stained carpet and the frowsty bed and the thud of next door’s stereo through the walls. He lay there in his old T-shirt and pajama trousers, and Shadow was sitting on the floor next to the radiator that leaked.
She glared up at him. “You! You’ve got a nerve!”
He sat up, stared around, confused. “It shouldn’t be you . . .”
“Why the hell not!” She was blazing with anger. “Who asked you to interfere, Cal! It was none of your business, none of it!”
“I thought . . .”
“I was happy with the Company! Now look what you’ve done to me! Look where I am!” She scrambled up, and she was strange to him, as if her shape had shifted, her face washed and unveiled and unfamiliar. She grabbed hold of his wrist, sharp nails digging in. “The police came! My mother—oh, you should have heard her. She should have won ten Oscars for that performance.”
He was hurting. She was hurting him. “I thought . . . It’s just you had everything I ever wanted. And you ran away from it.”
“Money’s not happiness.” She dropped his wrist and stepped back. “Private schools and a big house and three cars, that’s not happiness. Didn’t you ever think I could be unhappy too?”
He shook his head, numbed. He couldn’t believe that. He still couldn’t.
The stereo thumped. He got off the bed and sat on its edge, leaning over and running his hands through his hair as he’d used to, when it had woken him, when he’d been waiting for his mother to get home.
Shadow watched him, rigid a moment. Then she came and sat next to him.
The light from the lamppost outside flickered and went out. In the darkness she said, “I hate it here, Cal. I’m all on my own. Find me.”
The voice wasn’t hers. It came from the woman sitting by the cauldron who looked up as he sat, pushing aside the tangle of nightshade and hemlock.
This was a dark place. A cave, maybe, an underworld. On the red walls he saw the old graffiti from Sutton Street, and smudgy paintings of animals, and handmarks.
She shuffled up to make room for him. “I’ve been waiting, Cal.”
The cauldron was huge. Bronze, dented, with a curling red enamel pattern around the rim. It hung from three great chains that rose up into the darkness and vanished, as if they reached to the sky. In it, liquid bubbled and plopped. Steam rose, half hiding his mother.
It was she who wore the tattoos now, not a web like Shadow, but blue lines on her cheeks. She took his hand, and stroked it. “Did you think it was an accident?” she said quietly.
“I don’t know. Was it?”
She didn’t answer. Then she said, “All our lives, minute by minute, lead to what we are.” She loo
He tried to smile. Steam blurred between them. “Do you forgive me?” he whispered.
The cauldron bubbled. When he knew she was not there, was not going to answer, he stood and looked into it, and saw that fish swam in there, shoals of them, though the liquid was red. One of the fish leaped; he jerked back as it flashed out and back, barely missing his face with its tail. And three drops of the blood fell out onto the snow. He stared at them, because they were the heart of it, the secret, melting into each other, pitting the white frosted crystals.
“Cal.”
Owein. One of the Company. He caught Cal’s arm but Cal flung him off. “Leave me alone.”
There were feathers now, black, from a bird’s wing. Black. White. Red.
The Company were here, all around him. “Leave him to me,” Kai was saying; he came over. “Arthur wants you. We’ve been looking for you.”
“Leave me ALONE!” He had the sword, he struck out with it, and Kai’s parry was hurried and wrong, and Cal stepped in close and hurled the man back, so that he landed sprawling, the dark expensive coat in the slush, his fair hair in his eyes. Astonished, he stared up. Cal laughed, then turned, threatening. “That goes for all of you!”
Darkness. Light. Blood. These were what the Grail held. There was a great truth, a breathtaking secret and he almost had hold of it, a door he had almost tugged open, the handle smooth under his fingers, the castle walls rising in front of him, and this was Corbenic and he was home, and a voice said, “Even me, Cal?” and it all vanished and he turned, white with fury.
But Hawk was unarmed. “Wake up, laddie,” he whispered.
He was warmer. Green light was filtering through leaves onto his face, and the dog was snoring beside him, a comfortable lump curled around his legs. Stiff, Cal sat up.
The fire smoldered smokily. Birds were singing, and the sun glinted through the overgrown windows of the chapel. Of Merlin there was no sign.
Pushing the sleepy dog off he climbed up and brushed leaf dust and soil and grime from his ruined jeans and jacket, rubbed his stubbly face and yawned. He needed a wash and a drink.
Outside, ducking under the archway, he found a small spring that bubbled out of the rocks, a tiny, crystal-clear water source that he drank from again and again, splashing the icy drops on his face and hands, down his neck, as if he could never have enough of it.
As he dried himself awkwardly with his sleeve, he listened to the trickle and splash of the water. It was loud. It hadn’t been there last night. He looked around.
The chapel was tilted, as if some great blow had struck it. Its walls were nearly smothered, but he could see carved stones worn almost to smoothness by centuries of rain; coming up to one he pushed the ivy aside and felt with his fingers the gnarled grotesque faces, the cavalcade of knights that curved around the pillar. Small grains dislodged and fell from under his fingertips.
“Breakfast,” Merlin said cheerfully.
Cal spun.
The Hermit leaned against a tree. He waved a hand over a spread of leaves and nuts, daintily arranged.
Cal came and sat down. He looked at the unappetizing mess. “Thanks.”
Merlin selected an ancient hazelnut with great care. To Cal’s amazement, when he spoke he sounded completely normal. “There are lots of old stories about the Grail. Some say it was a Celtic cauldron. Others the cup of the Last Supper. There are different versions of the myth, but the most well known has Joseph of Arimathea bringing the cup to Britain, and possibly to the Island of Avalon.”
Cal said, “Where’s that?”
“Beyond. ‘Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, nor ever wind blows loudly. Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.’ Some say Glastonbury.”
Cal had heard of it. “There’s a rock festival there.”
“Indeed.” Merlin scratched his tangle of hair with long fingers.
“You think I should look there? For Corbenic?”
The Hermit smiled. “That is within you. You might find that anywhere. Percival fails to ask about the Grail and must return to the castle. That was always your mistake, not going back. But first . . .”
“First I have something else to do. Someone else to see.”
Merlin’s eyes slid to the woods. “Your shadow.”
Wary, Cal stood. “Maybe. But first, how do I get out of this place?”
“You just wish to be out.” Merlin picked up a nut and tossed it away; it hit the dog. He turned and glared at her. “You! Bitch!” He scrambled up hastily, swung to Cal. “How long has she been here? Has she heard everything? Has she found the secrets yet, the secrets of my power?”
His heart sinking, Cal took a step back. He went into the chapel and found his bag, and filled his water bottle hastily at the tiny spring.
Merlin was still cursing the dog. His face was narrow; he had spread his hands and was muttering things about pigs and apple trees and a prison under a stone. He was crazy. He should be in some hospital. Cal watched him in silence.
Suddenly Merlin’s eyes went to Cal, sly. “The knight has spent his vigil in the chapel. The knight continues the quest.”
Cal nodded. Then he turned and walked away. Deep in the wood he turned and looked back. Merlin and the dog were eyeing each other warily. Then the dog yawned and lay down.
Cal walked for twenty minutes before he found the lane. Climbing over a stile he scrambled down into it, a deep lane between two hedges, sparse now with winter twigs. Turning to his right, he followed it. It led downhill, around a bend, widened out, became a two-lane road, rose into a bridge.
He leaned on the bridge rail in a bewilderment of noise. Below him, in a thundering explosion of trucks and fast cars and searing speed, a motorway stretched in both directions. As far as his eyes could see.
Chapter Twenty-two
He emerged from the forest and came upon a most wondrous land.
2nd Continuation
Bath was beautiful. He wandered around its shops in weary appreciation, looking in at the fabulous furniture, the sumptuous giftware. Swaths of expensive fabric and chandeliers hung in shop windows; there were open-topped buses with Japanese tourists and taped commentaries about the Romans, Jane Austen, John Wood. And the streets amazed him—they were so grand, so sweeping, elegant facades of golden stone. Classy. That Shadow lived here impressed him.
He had to ask a few times for Great Pulteney Street; it was over a quaint bridge with tiny shops on each side. When he’d crossed it he stared down the wide expanse of perfectly matching elegant houses. Each one was Georgian, with a big painted front door, the steps in front leading down into an area behind black railings, where the servants would once have lived.
At Shadow’s number he stopped. There were window boxes with tiny daffodils and primulas, yellow and blue. The door was a glossy red, the huge brass handle gleaming, the curtains looped back. It all screamed money.
He swallowed. He’d caught sight of his reflection briefly in a window in town and had been shocked. He looked ten years older. His hair was matted and his clothes filthy with mud and dirt; he must stink. Merlin had loaned him an old army coat that came down past his knees, tattered khaki but warmer than just his jacket. He looked down at it with a sour smile. A few weeks ago he wouldn’t have touched it with a barge pole. But that was a lifetime away. He climbed the steps and rang the bell, turning and watching the street warily.
“Yes?” The tone was distasteful. He turned back and saw a woman of about fifty, stocky, in a flower-print dress. Her sleeves were rolled up, her hands floury. It wasn’t what he’d expected.
“Hi. I’m a friend of Sh . . . Sophie. Is it possible to speak to her?”
The woman looked him up and down. “She’s at school. Who shall I say called?”
“Cal,” he began, “but . . .” The door shut in his face. “Bloody snob,??
It was two o’clock, and fairly warm. He walked back to the bridge and down some steps at the side and along the riverbank, then sat and watched the water thunder over the weir. There were two swans on the river, performing an elegant bobbing and intertwining love dance; joggers and tourists stopped to watch them.
Cal lay down on the bench and dozed in the weak sun. If she wouldn’t help him, he didn’t know what he’d do. The money was gone. He wouldn’t sit in an underpass and beg. Glastonbury, Merlin had said. On the maps he’d looked at in the bookshops it wasn’t so far. Perhaps he could walk there. But he needed food.
He must have slept. Faces and voices disturbed him, as they always did. His mother said, “Get yourself something from the chippie for your tea,” and he laughed sourly and said, “What’s new,” and then sat up, cold and strained, because she was dead.
She was dead.
He still couldn’t take that in. He knew it, understood it, couldn’t bear it, was glad of it. And yet she was here, still a weight on him. He got up quickly and went back up to the street.
After twenty minutes leaning in a doorway, he saw Shadow coming along. She looked so different. Her hair was lighter, and she wore the school uniform he’d seen in the photo on the poster, a blue blazer, a tartan skirt. And the tattoo was gone. There was another girl with her, dressed the same. They had a magazine open and were looking at it, laughing.
His heart thudded. She didn’t look unhappy. For a moment he froze. He couldn’t speak to her. He should go away and leave her. And then, with an almost desperate lunge, he made himself step out right in front of them. “Shadow,” he said.
The friend gave a small scream. Startled, Shadow looked up. Her face was a blank shock. Then she said, “Cal?”
He tried to smile. Passersby turned. In a flash he saw what they saw: a homeless good-for-nothing harassing two well-heeled girls. Until Shadow grabbed his arm. “What are you doing here? What’s happened to you?”